Foress
by Iwilo
Summary: Kings don't purr. Warning: This is a quick scene. No action thriller or big romance. One shot.


Midday : Sholazar Basin

_Is my foress. I ownit. Ebrytin. Hab tree fer climb. Allplace fer hide. Tings fer kill, eat. Kill fer no fuckin' reason sahmtime. If I dinna wishfer wearpant, I dunna. I wishfer perbert, den I be perbert. Aneemal. It dunna madder in my foress. Mushmout, crazy, anry, ugly dunna happen. Troll is nosuch ting. Dunna exiss. Ony monser, snake, dragon, power. Fybe is wha Fybe say. Anytin' happen dinna happen, if I sayit._

_Ebrytin' as I wish. Own shit. Digupped. Bury it. Kill anyone. Piss on. Cut fuckin' headoff. Stick tuss in dere troat. _

_Dunna camed in my foress. I kill ya. Allian. Horde. I canna gib less a shits. Is foress ob Fybe. Mine. Em da King ob dis place. I ownit._

The day is unbearably hot. Even the heat-accustomed jungle birds and lizards have taken to the darker places near streams, in caves and underground burrows. Warm air buffets the tree-tops, thick branches swaying, massive leaves waving like sheets hung out to dry. The sun is bright, hot as it radiates through even the thickest of the foliage, lending each level of canopy below a green glow that deepens in shade as it filters to the distant jungle floor. It is cooler down there, where the worms and the stupid furry things crawl and hide.

Sweat courses down his face, neck and back. He reaches and brushes it from his chest when it tickles so much that it annoys him; a slow, distracted sweep of the arm. Sweat traces his hairline and the place where the back of his ears meet his skull. It drips off the end of his long nose at random intervals and the wind catches it, blowing it away. A thick mass of long indigo dreadlocks are heavy between his shoulders. The ones that touch his skin are damply adhered.

He doesn't make much effort to move, but he rocks fluidly, one arm wrapped loosely around the base of the tree as he squats on a thick branch. The wind blows, the trees sway, Fyve sways. When it isn't crossing his chest to idly bat at tickling droplets, his left arms hangs at his side, swaying past his feet and beneath the branch. The fingers are relaxed, slightly curled.

The rise and fall of his chest is even, slow, barely perceptible. His eyes shift with a calm, watchful sweep that is both humanoid and non-humanoid, like the eyes of a silverback gorilla as he scans his territory.

The hairless and heavily protruding brow that has protected his eyes thus far is suddenly breached by an errant drop of sweat. He blinks rapidly, squeezes his eyes shut. Hunched neck dipping further forward; he grinds a fist against burning eyes, grunting with quiet irritation as he tries to press out the stinging salt. The arm around the tree tenses, the bulge of the muscles shifting subtly. The two toes of each foot flex, pinching against the bark where it meets the crease beneath the knuckle, the tips bending over the edge of the branch they rest upon.

With a meaty slap, he lets his left hand drop, the side of his fist bouncing off the muscle of his inner left thigh. He blinks, stares through the trees with bloodshot eyes, the whites having gone an irritated red, as if the dark crimson of his irises has bled out, though the shade is much lighter. Hissing in through his teeth, he releases the tree trunk, slapping both hands over his eyes this time. He wished to stay up here, despite the painful heat that burns the air from the lungs. Up here feels like power.

_Bitch._

The constant wind is compounded with a particularly massive gale that seems to knock the unusually large troll out of the tree, sends him flying as if he were weightless, a big blue leaf. He sails through the air, twisting so that his back is toward the leaf-obscured sky. Green shadows and forms create liquid tattoos across his skin in a constantly shifting river as he reaches with long, powerful arms. Fingers and thumbs spread flat like deformed, webless wings.

There is the hiss of leaves and the snap of thin twigs and then a thud and creak as the troll who refuses to be a troll lands against the thick truck of a second tree with such force that it rocks away from his weight; sheets of sweat spreading from him in fans as thick dreadlocks flop over his shoulders, long ears swaying. He keeps his head turned away, to avoid imbedding or breaking a massive tusk. As the tree springs into place, he pushes off with the balls of his feet and twists without hesitation, reaching for a set of branches and hanging there with both hands.

It's cooler here, halfway between the towering roof and distant floor of the sprawling jungle.

_My foress._

The wind that dominates the treetops above is barely noticeable here, but it is enough to cool his damp skin and he growls appreciatively. He cranes his neck to look up, past his calloused hands that wrap the branch. He turns his head from side to side with vague interest, not looking for anything in particular, just looking. He shrugs his shoulders, lifting himself and relaxing again, legs kicking slowly as he sways back and forth. The branch creaks and the leaves make brushing sounds as they begin to shiver when he kicks his legs in unison, causing himself to swing forward and back. His body is long and curls through the air, back arcing when he looks up at the leaves, flat belly arcing when he glimpses the ground far below.

With another grunt, he launches himself, arms flung back and waving for balance, legs kicking as they scissor and the knees slam around the trunk of another tree for purchase. Arms fly forward, hugging the tree as he keeps his head to the side and his belly tucked in, back bent so that his crotch doesn't connect unpleasantly with the tree. He slides slowly, knees leaning out as he lets his toes curl in with his heels, half-walking, half-shimmying down the relatively smooth bark.

The particular tree he has chosen grows not from the jungle floor proper, but from a rocky outcrop at the layered foot of the surrounding mountains. The roots are exposed on the side where he is climbing down, and wrap around the jutting stone in a thick, pale mass.

He peers over his left shoulder with eyes that are still a little blood shot as he nears the base of the tree. The bark toward the bottom is rougher, worn against his palm, as if someone has been worrying at it with a blunt instrument. He turns his head and the right side of his tusk bumps against the tree as he slides the rest of the way, his eyes roll up and close as his fingers squeeze tighter, large feet landing on exposed roots and rocking back on their heels, forward again onto the toes. He leans into the tree, begins grinding the side of his tusk against the bark in earnest. He groans quietly.

The velvety, invisible white fuzz that covers most of him becomes longer fur on the top half of his spine. It now rises and falls as he rubs his oversized tusk against the tree with such force that the bark crumbles into dust; more worn spots open up and lighter wooden flesh shines beneath. He slowly withdraws the tusk, sliding it backward and up as he leans his forehead into the tree and tilts it; slides the left tusk into place, never losing contact with the bark. The growl in his chest is constant with his exhales as he grinds away at the opposite side of the tree. His claws, which he's cut and filed to look like short fingernails, scrabble at the bark in an insectile manner. Though he is not aware of it, would be horrified to know it, he almost sounds like a nightsaber purring.

* * *

End.

Fyve is erratic. He has no structure.

I think that in a couple of my shorts, such as this particular one, people feel let down by the ending, or lack of what might be considered a "proper" one. I always write for me, first and foremost. I don't mean to say that I go out of my way to disappoint people. I don't want that. It's just that, maybe it's about the journey and not the destination. Sometimes I just enjoy moments. I get a mental glimpse into one of these, I see it, and I want to record it. And when it ends, I don't want to press or force it to continue beyond where it's real to me. I'm sorry if some people don't like it, but I'm not sorry for writing it because it's therapeutic for me.

Thank you for reading. Thanks for letting me share. I love that I can do this because it really means a lot to me. Comments and criticism are always welcome, wanted and appreciated. Fyve, username Fybe, resides on Moon Guard realm.


End file.
